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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398436">Flickering Light</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/korbal/pseuds/korbal'>korbal</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Songs of the North [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, I love all the tribes but the Banuk are special to me, Oneshot, but I enjoyed folding her in all the same, more like an Aloy cameo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 09:53:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,076</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398436</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/korbal/pseuds/korbal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some concept art shows Banuk tribesmen riding machines, probably even using them as pack beasts. That level of harmony didn't make it to the final game, but what if Banuk and machine really *were* that close, before the Derangement?</p>
<p>A shaman who remembers those days reminisces sadly while he makes his way home from a hunt.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Songs of the North [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022626</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Flickering Light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     Punctuated by the soft shuffle of his boots in the freshly-fallen snow, Tuktu’s song rings out into the gathering darkness.</p>
<p>     The song is an old one, unfamiliar to most of the young hunters in his werak. Not because their elders failed to teach them the songs, but because there is little practical use for them. One can sing at a machine all he wants these days, but the Blue Light is not for the people anymore.</p>
<p>     The aging shaman sings it anyway, a comfortable old tune to fill the silence.</p>
<p>     He sags slightly under the weight of his pack, stuffed with harvested Grazer panels. A pouch at his waist contains the precious lens and a rabbit skin to cushion it. Another bundle would delight the tinkerer Makkut with some of the more sensitive inner components and wire. Too many burdens for one old man perhaps, but his hunters had made such a clean kill. It’d be wasteful to leave any more for the Glinthawks than he had to; unlike the spoils of most Grazer kills he had the pleasure of dressing, these were unsullied by Blaze fire and barely marked by arrowheads.</p>
<p>     Even through the thick haze of falling snow, he easily spots a Strider herd grazing on a rise to the east, a safe distance from his intended path. Tuktu frowns, his Grazer song fading into silence. <em> Safe</em>.</p>
<p>     When he was a boy, there was no such distinction. It was <em> all </em> safe. Banuk could walk freely among the machines as they devoured grass and stone. They learned many of the machines’ songs and reached an understanding. A friendship. When hunters approached them for their metal and wire the machines fled, of course. But they never retaliated, and never shrank away from villages and camps. Shamans spoke, sang, danced with them. You could even ask small favors of them through song, if they were not busy. They had <em> understood</em>, and now many grandchildren doubt that it was ever so.</p>
<p>     The last two decades have been fraught with confused longing for the Banuk people, and even moreso its shamans. Tuktu himself aches to understand just what has changed between them.</p>
<p>     He heaves a sigh and hugs the edge of the rock wall to his right, to maximize the distance between himself and the Strider herd. But he can’t stop himself staring at their lights bobbing to and fro, illuminating the airborne snowflakes around them. The distant blue flecks in the darkness jog an old memory: a young Tuktu and his wizened mentor, joining a chorus of Glinthawks while the stars emerged. It drags a wistful smile out of the old shaman.</p>
<p>     And there - the telltale fidgeting of a Watcher’s eyelight. Used to be a rarer sight in Ban-Ur and its surrounding territory than the Claim or even the Sundom, or so he had always heard from travelers. Unsurprising, with voracious tribes like the Oseram and Carja around. But the watchful machines are present with nearly every group these days, anxiously searching for threats without rest. Even under the protection of the Banuk, who want nothing more than to rejoin them in the Blue Light.</p>
<p>     A nearby dull metallic plodding cuts through Tuktu’s bittersweet reverie, and he freezes to the spot. The split second before it climbs into view directly ahead, he recognizes the footfalls: a lone Trampler. And escorting it, a Watcher. They seem to spot the Strider herd, and alter their course to meet them. Tuktu remains still, only four Trampler-lengths south of the pair. <em> Not a muscle... </em></p>
<p>     Yellow light blazes from above, atop the rock wall lining the road. Tuktu whips around, shielding his eyes, the light painting his shadow starkly upon the ground. Not one Watcher. <em> Two </em>.</p>
<p>     He forces his breath out slowly, even as adrenaline screams through his body. His shoulder dips, allowing the strap of his pack to slip halfway down his arm. His hand finds the grip of his spear. But despite the roaring of his tensed muscles, he remains in place, takes a deep breath, and <em> hums </em>.</p>
<p>     The Watcher also pauses, in apparent confusion. It stares at the human hunter hunched beneath it and emitting a smooth bass note. Its spotlight is quickly joined by those of the two others, Watcher and Trampler. They remain where they are, warily waiting for their companion to assess the threat.</p>
<p>     Before there’s time to even dare hope his song is having an effect, the Watcher squalls and its light flares red. Tuktu swears under his breath and lets his pack drop, yanking his spear free and rolling out of the way. The machine lands heavily on the spot he’d been standing an instant before.</p>
<p>     Shaking his head to get the snow out of his face, he gives full voice to the song now, defiant and frustrated. <em> I am no enemy, little one. You attack me in vain; I only wish to pass though. </em> He sidesteps again, knocking a faceplate off with a deft spear swipe as the machine charges past. It stumbles and sprawls in the snow, thrashing.</p>
<p>     Tuktu turns to face the other incoming Watcher, stabbing the point of his spear neatly through its lens. A waste, but necessary without the luxury of a full squad of hunters at his side. The Watcher’s lifeless husk drops to the ground, he glances up - and pauses, surprised.</p>
<p>     The Trampler has not fled like the Strider herd, nor has it approached to attack. It stands, hesitant, shining its uncertain yellow light over the proceedings. The sight makes the old shaman’s heart ache. Before the machines soured, what the Carja call the Derangement, these gentle giants had been his favorites. Once he spent two moons traveling with a Trampler herd high into the mountains, to a mysterious metal cave with an unseen barrier that threw him back. He had camped until his herd re-emerged, then returned with them to the valley where they had started. It was an idyllic time spent riding, walking, and sharing in their songs.</p>
<p>     A time long gone, of course. As the Watcher behind him finally regains its footing, Tuktu takes a step back, setting himself at an angle where he can see both machines at once. No telling when the big fellow will decide to charge, and the little one is fast.</p>
<p>     The Trampler’s light reddens at last, and it roars. Yet as Tuktu adjusts his stance, preparing to act as soon as the charge begins - it never comes. The machine tosses its head, snorts… and stays put. Tuktu glances back toward the Watcher, diving out of the way as it pounces again, dragging himself back upright with his spearhaft. Back to the Trampler - is that <em>blue</em> <em>light</em>? He blinks hard, distrusting his eyes. How could it be glowing both blue and red at the same time?</p>
<p>     The Watcher tackles him bodily, having had no footing trouble after its last miss. It spreads its feet to absorb the impact without falling, but Tuktu tumbles in the snow, already feeling the prickling sensation of blood under his hair. The Watcher’s footfalls are difficult to make out with his ears ringing; but even blinded and half-deaf, he manages to avoid a stomping. He rolls to his feet, spearpoint in front of him, enough snow falling away from his eyes to spot the machine midleap, just an arm’s length away. Barely enough time to twitch his spearpoint up to a better angle, lean into the tackle, and steel himself for the pain. His vision explodes into stars.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>     “Hey! You all right?”</p>
<p>     Tuktu comes back to himself seated on the ground, not unconscious but also too dizzy to try standing. He scrubs the snow and blood off his face with a mitten, only half-noticing that the voice seems to be oddly far above him. The Watcher, though - did he…?</p>
<p>     He only has to lift his head to spot the machine, flailing and screeching. His spear hit its mark - a crucial mechanism that the left leg needs in order to function, not usually accessible when the machine has its belly parallel to the ground. The stricken Watcher kicks its right leg wildly in compensation for its deadened left, spinning itself in circles in the snow.</p>
<p><em>     Poor thing. </em> “I am- ...yes. Let me put it out of--”</p>
<p>     There’s a twang of a bowstring, a crack of lens and frozen metal, and the Watcher’s cries are instantly silenced.</p>
<p>     “--its misery. Or fine, I can sing it to the Light afterward.” Typical young hunters. A shame they had no true understanding of the Blue Light.</p>
<p>     “Oh? Is there a ritual?”</p>
<p>     Tuktu finally turns toward the new arrival’s voice, but realizes in shock that the Trampler has <em> not </em> run off or been felled; in fact, it stands right over him. His muscles fire immediately and he scrabbles a short distance away before noticing that the machine is covered in little tendrils of softly glowing blue, leading up to its cool, docile eye lights. And astride its neck, the slight figure of a hunter, wearing rather less fur than is usual in these parts.</p>
<p>     “What…? How-?”</p>
<p>     She grins and pats the thick cables beneath her. “Don’t worry, I overrode it. You’re safe now.”</p>
<p>     Tuktu notes the strange word - “overrode” - but it’s not his immediate concern. He has to see. Leaning heavily on his spear, he staggers upright and stumbles around to the Trampler’s head. Bathed in blue light, the old shaman reaches up, cups one of the massive face plates in his free hand, and begins to sing.</p>
<p>     The rider leans forward to watch, bemused. The song is deep, clearly fighting with the lower end of the man’s vocal range, and to the undiscerning ear it seems fairly tuneless. Yet for a moment, it transports Tuktu to the machine-friend days of his youth.</p>
<p>     Just a moment, though. Something is wrong. The Trampler stands stolidly as Tuktu sings, gazing fixedly ahead. It doesn’t so much as shift its weight in response, and there’s no sign that it can even hear him. The shaman reaches into his soul and pours out his longing for the old friendship in throaty notes. The hunter atop the machine begins to fidget, clearly not sure what to do with the scene unfolding before her. Tuktu breaks off the song with a curse and turns away. The machine is calm, but there is no spirit within it. Whatever this hunter has done, it hasn't mended any connection to the Light.</p>
<p>     She clears her throat uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, are you... Tuktu? Just came out of Riverknife. Your werak was worried about you and asked me to keep an eye out. It was getting-” she glances up briefly and resumes, “-well it <em> is </em>dark now, and they were expecting you around sunset.”</p>
<p>     “Hmph. Maybe those young ones shouldn’t run so far ahead next time,” Tuktu growls. Then he pauses, conflicted. What she’s done with this Trampler is wrong, but now he recognizes the hallmarks of Nora design in the hunter’s gear. No sense in scolding; she hasn’t been taught better. But... perhaps there’s something he can still learn, a spark of knowledge he can coax into a useful flame. “I thank you, outsider. You don’t mind if I ask about…?” He gestures to the Trampler’s shining blue lights.</p>
<p>     She grins. “I can do you one better. Want a ride? I was planning to stay in the camp tonight anyway, once I tracked you down. We can talk shop for a while.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>     The snow continues howling relentlessly from the north, but the slight warmth of the Trampler beneath Tuktu takes the edge off. Knowing he will soon be back at a fireside with his haul of prime Grazer parts is another huge relief. He just can’t shake his feelings of unease as the machine plods stiffly ahead, without the graceful ease he remembers.</p>
<p>     He glances forward at the Nora huntress, silhouetted against the fireglow of Riverknife as it slowly draws closer. Everything about this is odd. A Nora this far from the Embrace, prominently wearing some sort of Old Ones trinket at her ear. And riding a Trampler, tame but mindless. So many expectations defeated by a single individual.</p>
<p>     “You cannot help but assume, sometimes. It is part of the learning process. The problem comes when you cling blindly to those assumptions, instead of allowing any learning to actually <em> happen </em>.” Tuktu smiles, old Thrak’s words echoing in his mind. His mentor had been an ancient sourpuss, but he was usually right.</p>
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